


Pulp

by lmeden



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-22
Updated: 2010-09-22
Packaged: 2017-10-12 02:41:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/119884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lmeden/pseuds/lmeden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames returns to their abandoned office.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pulp

I lean back against the wall, thinking. I stare at the closed door directly across from me; its frosted glass lit from the inside, the black letters naming the occupants limned with white light. The original names on the door are long since gone –scraped, rubbed, or faded– and now all that remains are half the names, and half the title.

_  
Arthur _______  
________ Eames  
_______________  
For Hire  
_

And barely that. I know that those remaining words will be gone by the end of the week. My eyelids are heavy. I would give anything, to be anywhere, but here. The streetlamps outside are flickering, their life dying like ours, as no one comes to this dying sections of the town anymore, seeks out this area's whores, seeks out our business.

I push off the wall and walk to the door. I slip my key into the lock and as the tumblers click, I push it open, walk inside. Across the room, the desk lamp is on; a perfect sphere of light illuminates the desk as if a halo has suddenly sprung up there, christening the office with its presence. But the edges of the halo are frayed and spent, spreading across the niches and piles created by files spread across the desk, tripping over each other in their haste to cover the space.

Arthur sits with his back to the desk, gazing out the window. I watch the edge of his profile; his gaze is dark and shuttered. Across the street, a neon sign blinks, sending a horizontal blindfold of shadow across his eyes. I blink and shift my gaze to the steady circle of light provided by the desk lamp. Slowly, the dizziness from the flashing light fades.

As the door clicks shut behind me, Arthur turns, his lips parted slightly in surprise. "You came back." It is half statement and half question. I don't answer either one.

I walk across the room, reaching under my jacket and into my vest to pull out a slim case. I flip it open and remove a cigarette. As I hold the fag and its case in between the fingers of one hand, I reach the desk and push aside some of the papers and the heavy typewriter that was here when we rented the office, and will doubtlessly be left behind when we leave. It shrieks as it moves.

Sitting on the desk, concealed from the door, is a stout glass. Golden scotch shimmers at the bottom, its ice long since melted. I glance at it pointedly, then raise my eyebrows in Arthur's direction.

He has been drinking alone. Sitting here, in our office of nigh on four years, drinking scotch. He never liked this place when we worked together, took jobs together, poured over files together during long nights. Now that our partnership is dissolving, and we are leaving, he cannot seem to step out of the place.

Sighing, Arthur stands and walks over to the file cabinet next to the wall. It is empty now, except for the liquor. He pulls open a long drawer, lifts the small bottle and glass out, and pours me a measure.

"I see that you haven't left, either."

As I state the question, I look down at the papers spread around me. In the flickering neon light, I can't tell what they say. But at a single touch, I know what they are. Arthur's notes. His case files, from every job we ever took. They are written neatly; thin lines of text transverse the thick paper. Idly, I finger a sheet, feeling the thick, rough paper beneath the pads off my finger. It is – it was – Arthur's only indulgence. This paper.

Torn from sketchbooks and expensive notebooks, the paper that Arthur took notes on was always unnecessarily rich. Perhaps, I consider, he liked the rough, textured feel of it under his fingers.

"Sorry there's no ice," Arthur says as he hands me the glass of scotch and settles into the hard wooden chair as if it is the most comfortable chair he has ever sat in.

I cradle the glass and absently stroke the roughness of stubble on my cheek. "Perfectly fine." I sip the liquor and set it down next to me. Arthur hasn't answered my question. Perhaps I wasn't obvious enough in its asking. But I know his reasons; why he is here. I am supposed to long gone as well, riding a train halfway to anywhere else. Instead I'm sitting here, in an abandoned office with the man I worked with for four years, and will never see again after these few moments.

Arthur's eyes have turned back to the window, and he is watching the bricks of the building across the alleyway, examining the way neon light crawls through the mortar of the bricks before receding, like ephemeral waves.

I reach for my cigarette case, and hold it out. "Cigarette?"

Arthur looks back at me, and his eyes seem very far away. He nods briskly and takes the case, swiftly pulling out a fag. Perhaps he wants me to leave. I won't, though. Not yet. Before I can reach for a match, Arthur has brought his own lighter out. He lifts it, it glints as a flame rises, and he leans forward, lighting his fag. Slowly, I lean forward as well, and Arthur keeps the flame alive, allowing me to light my cigarette.

Then he snaps the lighter shut and puts it away, almost faster than I can see. I shift back onto the desk. Arthur turns his gaze back to the window, and the paltry view beyond. He balances the cigarette lightly between two slim fingers, letting it burn.

Without looking, he holds up my cigarette case for me to take. I reach out and push the case back, closing my fingers around his and forcing him to grasp the case tightly.

"Keep it."

Arthur's head bows, and he draws the case back, close to himself. He tucks it away, presumably where the lighter has vanished to. In a flash of neon, I see the corner of his eyes crease into a smile. I smile as well, and lift the cigarette to my lips.

I push off the desk and stand; leave.

When I finish the cigarette, I stub it out on my armrest and hold it until it cools. Then, feeling the thrum of the train beginning beneath me, I slip the butt into my pocket.


End file.
